Sherlock Holmes's 7 Paw Stories: John
by Zoffoli
Summary: When the door was pushed open, John grabbed his handgun. When something heavy jumped on his bed and roared, he fired. The roar broke into a wail as the tiger fell back. A tiger. There was a tiger in his room. Johnlock, bromance or slash.
1. JW

**************************Disclaimer: **All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners, Arthur Conan Doyle and in their BBC version Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Stephen Thompson. The original characters and plot are mine. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

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**Sherlock Holmes' 7 Paw Stories: John **

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John had made a habit of sleeping with his handgun under his pillow ever since they had been attacked in the middle of the night by an Indian swordsman, a month ago. The next day, he'd tried to talk Sherlock into switching rooms ("It's not my fault people assume you'd take the upper room with that arrogant attitude of yours!" "Arrogant? _I'm_ arrogant?" "Of course you bloody are! And what are you implying?"). Like in every other fight, Sherlock had won, and John was now lying in bed in the upper room. He slept very lightly, and when he heard the stairs' steps creak right outside his room, he was on his guard. When the door to his room was pushed open gingerly, he already had a hold of his gun, although he still pretended to be asleep.

When something big and heavy jumped on his bed and _roared, _John fired.

The roar broke into a wail as the tiger backed off and fell from the bed. John, utterly terrified, stared. A _tiger_. There was a _tiger_ in his room. This was just too much.

The beast was obviously injured and John didn't especially want to kill it – wasn't it an endangered species or something? He wanted no trouble. But he wasn't so stupid as to consider it harmless just because it was shot (only in the upper leg, it seemed). Very slowly, he climbed out of bed and gradually moved towards the door, never losing sight of the giant feline moaning on his bedroom floor. When he got to the door, he swiftly went out and locked it – thank God he'd put a lock on it even before he started getting those nightly visits just to have a little privacy – not that Sherlock ever prowled around his room, but that was beside the point. John doubted his little lock could hold back an angry tiger if it tried to intent get out, so he ran down the stairs and screamed.

"Sherlock! SHERLOCK! It's a tiger. A bloody _tiger_! And it's in _my _room! What have you done now?"

He burst into his flatmate's room, but said flatmate was nowhere to be seen: his bed wasn't even undone.

"Oh _great._ Marvellous timing, Sherlock, just perfect."

He went back to the living-room, just to check he hadn't missed a sleeping form curled up somewhere, but he hadn't. Where had the idiot gone? Leaving him to handle a _tiger,_ nonetheless...

John was furious. Cursing, he kicked a kitchen chair and nearly slipped on something lying on the floor.

"Bloody h..."

He froze. Clothes. Those were clothes. _Sherlock's_ clothes. John's head swirled and he had to sit down.

"What the..."

Rubbing his temples, he tried to make sense out of this – no Sherlock, his clothes on the kitchen's floor, and a _tiger_ in his room... John cursed under his breath. His mobile phone was in his room, too. Yup, with the tiger. Great, just great. Maybe he could try to break into Mrs. Hudson's flat (she was away at her sister's for a few days) and call Sherlock – or Mycroft, because Sherlock never answered his phone anyway, and especially not when he'd just disappeared without prior notice.

The agonised wail upstairs wasn't stopping, and John wondered what he'd tell the neighbours if they came to complain or even worse, called the police.

"Sorry, it's just a tiger, please don't worry."

But seriously, what was it doing here? Did it escape from a zoo? He'd have to check online later – for now, he had to stop the irritating wailing or the stupid cat would end up waking up the whole street. John went to the medical cabinet to pick up some morphine and bandages, but still held the gun firmly as he walked up the stairs and carefully opened the door to his room and turned the light on. The tiger was still lying on the floor, and stopped wailing the second John came in the room. He stared at it: what the hell? Was it just _acting_?

Aiming the gun at it and keeping his distance, John walked around the beast to check its injury, if only from afar.

"Don't you dare move, kitty, or I swear I will shoot you right between the eyes."

The tiger blinked, twice. Then it fixed a haughty gaze on John, who couldn't believe what he saw. He frowned.

"No more wailing? I thought you were hurt."

He came closer as the tiger gave him a look. _I __**am **__hurt, you idiot. Can't you tell?_ the pale eyes seemed to say. Those were very weird eyes for a tiger, quite eerie in fact, John thought – although he was more concerned about the paws and teeth, to be honest.

John noticed the bullet had pierced through the flesh and wasn't still in the wound, which was good news – for the tiger, anyway. It was still bleeding quite abundantly, and as a doctor, John knew he had to stop the haemorrhage before it was too late. A wild tiger probably would recover from this rather easily, but this one was probably held in captivity somewhere. Still, John couldn't fathom how it had gotten here in the first place. Would he be in trouble if it died? It had been self-defence, though. Anyone with a gun in hand and a tiger jumping on their bed would have fired.

"Okay, listen here. I need to stop the bleeding so I'll have to touch you... wait, actually, this is crazy, let me just call the police and a vet or something."

He walked to get his phone but suddenly the tiger was on him and he fell on his back. On edge, John ignored the paws digging into his shoulders and held the tiger at gunpoint. Their eyes locked, and John wavered: the feline's were filled with fear and _pleading_.

"What _are_ you?"

It grunted and fell back to the floor as its left leg gave way under its body. John seized the opportunity and applied pressure to the wound, then on the different pressure points that were more likely to help stop the bleeding. The tiger emitted a sound like a whimper and John almost felt bad for it.

"I'm sorry I shot you, but what were you doing on my bed, really?"

If he hadn't known better, John would have said the giant cat glared at him – but it was a _tiger_ for goodness' sake, it couldn't _glare_.

"You remind me of someone – damn him, by the way, leaving me with a bloody _tiger_ in the flat..."

John jumped back as the tiger snarled at him, and picked the gun nimbly.

"Don't. Move. I have no qualms shooting a man, don't think for one second I'll balk at shooting a big cat."

He could have sworn he saw a flash of hurt traverse its gaze, but it was soon gone, and the tiger rested its head on the floor and played dead. John was so puzzled by its attitude that he was rendered speechless. He treated the wound, and tried to ignore the tiger's pained growls. It really looked like a big cat, from up close – the doctor was surprised by the softness of its fur. Tamed, it was just like a giant plushy toy, or better. John couldn't help but smile: he had to admit that having such an exotic predator submitting to him stroked his ego. He didn't catch the sidelong glance the tiger sent him, as if it were reading his thoughts and taking them badly.

"Here we go. Now, just let me make a call..."

The tiger roared and made John jump.

"What is _wrong _with you? I don't care if you're not happy, I need to make a call so someone will come and take you home!"

Gingerly, the tiger got up, and teetered to the door.

"Where are you going? Wait!"

He grabbed his phone and ran after the tiger which somehow made its way down the stairs and crashed on the last step.

"You're injured, for God's sake! What's wrong with my room?"

Nothing was wrong with his room, it seemed: the tiger was just interested in Sherlock's clothes lying on the kitchen floor.

"Wait, he'll rant for hours if you ruin these..."

He stopped dead in his tracks and stared. The tiger had rolled into a ball on his flatmate's very expensive clothes, as if it owned them.

"You're... don't tell me you're Sherlock's _pet_?" John staggered.

The tiger groaned in dismay. It left the clothes there and limped to Sherlock's room, jumping onto the bed and rolling on its back. It sent John a look. John just goggled.

"Right. I have no idea what you're saying. Please do take the bed, it's not like _he_ uses it. If you're Sherlock's pet, I'm going to kill him..."

This earned him a snarl and he backed off.

"Okay, okay, let me just call him, all right?"

He picked his phone and dialled Sherlock's number. It rang in the kitchen. John cursed.

"How could he leave his phone when he didn't even tell me where he was going?" he asked desperately, looking at the beast on the bed.

The tiger shrugged and ignored him, as if he were too stupid to be worth his time.

"God I swear you're just like him, so bloody arrogant and capricious and... No... Don't tell me..."

A glimmer of hope flickered in the pale eyes that regained interest in him. John felt his leg waver and had to sit on the bed.

"Sherlock... are you Sherlock?"

The tiger blew in his face and it sounded like a relieved sigh. _Finally_, he seemed to tell him.

"Oh God I've gone bonkers..."

He was interrupted yet by another roar, and jumped.

"Would you please stop doing that?"

Sherlock sent him a dark look and scoffed. John had never seen a scoffing tiger, and his bewilderment was increasing by the second.

"What have you done?"

The tiger glanced at him as if he were an idiot – and maybe he was, talking to a tiger on his flatmate's bed in the middle of the night.

"You can't be Sherlock. Is there a hidden camera or something? Someone must have trained you to react like that..."

Sherlock just shook his head and his eyes were growing desperate – because of John's stupidity, that is.

"How am I supposed to bloody believe you've turned into a tiger?"

Said tiger winced at the outburst and jumped off from the bed and stumbled as he landed on his injured leg. He left the room and John was too tired to follow it. This was crazy. His life was crazy.

A minute later, the tiger was back, holding the Cluedo box in his mouth. John couldn't help but shiver at the sight of his jaw. Then it dawned on him.

"Jesus. You really are Sherlock."

The tiger dropped the box.

"I'm sorry I shot you. What were you thinking jumping on my bed like that?"

Sherlock averted his gaze and jumped back onto the bed, sitting next to John. The whole picture was rather comical.

John sighed.

"So... what do we do now? Should I call Mycroft?"

It was the tiger's turn to jump, and his snarl was so violent John thought he would go for the jugular vein.

"All right, calm down, I won't call him. But Sherlock, you need someone to..."

He was cut off by the tiger putting a paw on his thigh and stared, dumbfounded. _You,_ said the gesture, and it was so sweet John didn't know what to say. He couldn't help but glance at the tiger somewhat suspiciously – this was not Sherlockian in the least, after all. Then again, if he really had been turned into a tiger, he would probably feel pretty hopeless. John smiled and petted his head, right between the ears.

"Okay. Okay, Sherlock."

It was amazing how smooth a tiger's fur was – it gave John this peculiar feeling of cosiness he thought was only possible with a fellow human being. He'd never been one for animals – he had nothing against them of course, but he wouldn't want to have a pet. He much preferred human company.

"You know, maybe I like you better in Tigger form."

Sherlock stared.

"Oh come on, don't tell me you've never heard of Winnie the Pooh?"

The tiger rolled his eyes and let his head fall onto the pillow dramatically.

"I should have gotten a camera. Really. You have no idea how well this would sell."

This earned him a death glare and a threatening growl. Somehow, Sherlock's exposed canines weren't as _fluffy_ as the rest. John swallowed.

"Right. No camera. I don't have one anyway."

As he stroked the tiger's back down his spine, he seemed to think of something funny, and bit his lip to stop himself from laughing. Sherlock arched his brow – and such a sight did nothing to calm John's impending laughter.

Since John wasn't giving him the explanation he was obviously demanding, Sherlock hissed and swung his tail to show his displeasure. John ignored him and played with an ear instead, relishing in the smoothness. Moving to the cheeks, he ran his fingers through the fluffy white hair on each side of the indignant face.

"I was just thinking that it'd be funny if Mycroft had left any of his surveillance cameras in the flat."

Sherlock's ears flattened and his pupils dilated. He snarled. John frowned and pressed a finger to his muzzle, startling him efficiently. He noted that a bewildered tiger was a very comical sight.

"Look, you're the one who somehow managed to turn into a tiger, so don't take it out on me, all right? I'm sorry I shot you, but you had it coming."

Something like pain flashed in the translucent eyes and John regretted his words instantly. He hadn't meant the reference to the wall of Sherlock had a bad habit of shooting when he was bored. It also reminded him Sherlock must be feeling very lost and out of place. He resumed his petting and sent him an apologetic look.

"Sorry, Sherlock, I didn't mean it that way. But hell, I'm talking to a tiger as if it were my flatmate, what do you expect me to do? This is insane, you know. Bloody insane. Like everything related to you, really."

Sherlock just turned his head the other way.

"Oh, stop flying off the handle to every word I say! You're such a complete tosser sometimes. Most of the time."

He started playing with the paw closest to him – it was exactly like a cat's, except much bigger. Again, John couldn't help but melt. What was wrong with him? He liked cats, but he wasn't dotty about them. He couldn't figure out why playing with tiger-Sherlock was so much fun.

As he shifted a bit on the bed, he accidentally brushed against the injured leg, eliciting a pitiful groan from his feline flatmate.

"Oops, sorry. Guess it'd be better if you lay on the other side of the bed."

The tiger complied and John marvelled: he was being so _obedient _it was almost out of character. As if reading his thoughts, Sherlock rolled on his side and glared. John chuckled and moved to rest on his elbow, Roman-style.

"On second thought, you really have weird eyes. For a tiger, I mean," he added pre-emptively.

John wasn't sure whether the tiger scoffed or pouted disdainfully, but either way, it looked so silly it was actually cute. _Cute? What's got into you, John Watson, a tiger isn't _cute_. _Sherlock _isn't cute! _

He caught the scrutinizing stare and grinned.

"Can't read my thoughts, can you? No wonder, they're so stupid... Oh, don't give me that "as-if-you-weren't-always-stupid" look or I'll stop petting you."

The tiger's eyes turned into slits and John dared stroke his throat as if he were merely a giant fluffy cat. He smirked.

"Don't lie, Sherlock. I know you like it. You are _purring_."

The mortified look on the tiger's face was ridiculously funny. Apparently he hadn't realised until now that he _was_ indeed purring. He turned away abruptly, breaking contact with John, and rolled onto his other side, turning his back to him.

"Oh, come on, nothing's wrong with that. It's not as if you were purring in human form..."

John had the very bad idea to actually picture that, and this time couldn't hold back a chuckle. He buried his face into the warm and incredibly soft fur and laughed. To his surprise, Sherlock didn't bite him, nor did he jump from the bed and leave. He was a great pillow, and suddenly John felt very tired. If he could get away with this, maybe he should just go back to sleep and deal with kitty Sherlock in the morning.

"I mean, it can't get any worse, right?" he mumbled against Sherlock's back. "So it can wait..."

John had had the fright of his life (well, maybe not, but still, waking up with a tiger on his bed wasn't one of his favourite experiences), and was now holding a very warm and comfortable giant cat as a pillow. The fact that it was a _tiger_ and apparently his insufferable flatmate to boot only made it more flattering. Who could ever boast that they had tamed a tiger and made Sherlock Holmes purr in the span of one night? Hell, in a lifetime, really...

Those pleasant thoughts and the warmth of the giant pet in his arms were lulling John back to sleep.

But before he fell into a deep slumber, he added in a drowsy whisper:

"I lied... Fluffy tiger's fun, but I still like you in human form too..."

When he woke up in the morning, John was very surprised to find himself in Sherlock's bed. With no trace of Sherlock. He panicked and wondered what the hell they had done, but he couldn't recall drinking or anything of the sort that would have led to... this.

Then it hit him. The tiger. He jumped out of bed.

"Sherlock! Sherlock!"

"Um?"

John froze. Sherlock was standing in the kitchen, bending over his microscope. Perfectly human.

"What... how..."

"What were you doing in my bed? I have no idea. How did I sleep? Very well, thank you, though not much."

"But... the tiger..."

Sherlock looked up and arched an eyebrow through his goggles.

"Are you still sleeping?"

Speechless, John fell back on a chair.

"Where did you go last night?"

"Went out for the Russian roulette case. I've solved it, by the way."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"You were sleeping so peacefully, and you didn't hear me when I called the first time, so.."

John eyed him suspiciously, but Sherlock had already gone back to his experiment and seemed to consider the discussion over.

"Right. Well, I think I need an aspirin."

Had he looked back before leaving the room, he would have caught the relieved expression on his friend and flatmate's face.

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**A.N: **This is a joint project with my friend Robina Snyder: Sherlock is turned into a feline and is being taken care of by different characters. She's already posted her Molly and Lestrade stories, and will be taking care of Mrs. Hudson and Moriarty. My characters are John, Irene and Mycroft. Here is John: I might add a bonus chapter with Sherlock's POV, and maybe even an extra one with the prompt: what if John was the one turned into a feline? Hope you've enjoyed reading! Reviewers are loved ;)

**Edit:** This chapter was kindly betaed by Anbessette. All my thanks for helping me correct my mistakes!

_An illustration has been made for this chapter by Ami-Cat on DeviantArt. Check my profile for the link! :3_


	2. SH

**A/N:** Many thanks to my anonymous reviewers! Here is Sherlock's POV, as promised. Hope you enjoy reading :) As always, reviewers are loved ;)

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**Sherlock Holmes' 7 Paw Stories: Sherlock **

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Sherlock hated sleeping. It was dull and waiting to fall asleep bored him to death – to such an extent that he usually just gave up and went to do something. He didn't like waking up, either, because it usually took him more than 10 seconds to be perfectly alert and it made him feel slow and sluggish. That was one of the reasons he had needed to win against the Woman – he really hadn't appreciated her trick with the syringe – although he still admired her for it.

Therefore when it took him more than _30_ seconds to be fully alert after a little nap on the kitchen table, he knew something was wrong. And of course, it annoyed him. _Irritating_, he thought. When he saw the paws, striped body and tail, he recognized that was an understatement.

At first he thought he was dreaming, but when he bumped violently against the wall to check for pain, it worked. He growled. All right, so throwing himself at the wall might not have been the best of ideas – but what was he supposed to do? He couldn't exactly pinch himself, could he?

After fifteen minutes of roaming in the living-room and trying to understand, he got bored. After 30 minutes, he felt ill at ease. After an hour, he panicked.

With hindsight, he had no idea why at that time he thought of going to John. He was his only friend, but to Sherlock that just meant he cared deeply for John – not that John could be useful or, God forbid, smarter than him. He hadn't shown much understanding on the moor either. Still, once he started feeling something like fear and loss, the terrible gnawing doubt he hated most, he knew he'd end up in John's room.

But he wouldn't admit it, even to himself, so he waited another hour before walking up the stairs to his flatmate's bedroom and pushing the door open gingerly. He noticed John move his hand under his pillow. _Gun_, he noted. _And_ John was pretending to be asleep. Not good – Sherlock knew he'd have to act fast. So he very logically entered the room and jumped on the bed so abruptly John gasped - to reassure him and signify his friend he was _Sherlock_ and not a tiger, he roared.

As the bullet entered his flesh, he yelped and remembered John was probably too ignorant to know siberian tigers roared infrequently, mostly after a successful kill or during the search for a mate. Obviously there was no proper mate for a tiger around, and there wasn't anyone else in the whole house that it could have killed, Mrs. Hudson being away. If John had been Sherlock, he would have known all that, and he'd have _observed_, but he wasn't, and so he did the most John-like thing Sherlock knew: he fired.

It hurt so much that if Sherlock had had any lingering doubt as this being the reality, he was now quite convinced that he wasn't dreaming. The wooden floor of John's room was cold, he noted in a pain-stricken daze. Very slowly, the ex-soldier climbed out of bed and gradually moved towards the door, never losing sight of him – and yet, not noticing. If John couldn't tell, who would? Something very close to hopelessness joined the fear and confusion that were settling in Sherlock's stomach. This was only confirmed when he heard his friend double-lock the door behind him. _Great._ He was still a tiger, and was now in terrible pain and bleeding on the floor in a locked room. Maybe going to John hadn't been such a great idea after all.

"Sherlock! SHERLOCK! It's a tiger. A bloody _tiger_! And it's in _my _room! What have you done again?" John yelled in the staircase.

_Siberian tiger, to be more precise_, thought Sherlock, a little groggy from the shot. He flinched at the accusation – he hadn't done _anything_ this time. Had he? In any case, he was miffed that John would automatically assume he was at fault. His agonizing wail grew louder with outrage.

This whole situation was absolutely absurd. Would he just _die_ here like that? As tiger shot by his own flatmate? The thought was so dramatically ironic that he couldn't help but grin and chuff, but the movement sent a jolt of pain through his leg and he winced.

He could hear John rambling downstairs and a sudden thump told him he must have kicked something. Most likely a chair, since Sherlock could locate him in the kitchen and he wouldn't dare kick the table, which was covered with files and tubes – and his microscope too. The detective was trying to occupy his mind to distract it from the pain. Why wasn't John coming back? Even if he didn't c are for his well-being, as he wasn't aware of _who_ was trapped in a tiger's body, he should have been considering the neighbours' reactions by now. Sherlock cursed his slowness.

After minutes that felt like centuries to Sherlock, steps were heard in the staircase and a wave of relief washed over him. Until he remembered what his hope in his friend had led him to the last time he was expecting help from him – what if John came to shoot him in the head this time to stop the wailing? The moment the door was opened Sherlock dropped the act and thought it wiser to remain silent. Maybe it would even convince John that he wasn't just any tiger.

John stared at him and he stared back. ___See? I'm a good tiger. A __smart____ tiger. What can you deduce from that?_ Not much, apparently, as he aimed the gun at him again and kept his distance. Sherlock sent him an exasperated look, which he missed as he seemed to be checking on his injury. Well, perhaps he'd come to fix that, at least.

"Don't you dare move, kitty, or I swear I will shoot you right between the eyes."

Sherlock couldn't believe what he was hearing. _Kitty? _He blinked, twice. _KITTY?_ He fixed a haughty gaze on his flatmate. S_ticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me, _he thought with regal disdain, until he remembered John was holding a gun. John frowned.

"No more wailing? I thought you were hurt."

_Sherlock gave him a look. __I __**am **__hurt, you idiot. Can't you tell?_ _And whose fault do you think it is?_ But John didn't seem to be doing much thinking at all, and appeared to be lost in his eyes. In a tiger's eyes, for goodness' sake! _Hello, I'm still bleeding here. _ John was examining the wound, and Sherlock saw something like worry flash in his eyes. He frowned. John wouldn't worry for a tiger. Then it hit him. Of course. John wouldn't worry for a tiger, but he'd be stupid enough to wonder whether he'd get into trouble for it, since tigers were endangered, and it was rather hard to hide a dead one in your flat for too long. Sherlock observed him as he seemed to reassure himself, and groaned in annoyance, ignoring the foreign twinge this cause him. He'd never admit that the thought of his friend worrying about such things while he was bleeding on the floor could hurt him somehow.

"Okay, listen here. I need to stop the bleeding so I'll have to touch you... wait, actually, this is crazy, let me just call the police and a vet or something."

_No! _Sherlock panicked and before he could think about it twice jumped on John and made him fall on his back. He clenched his shoulders, not realizing he was in fact digging his paws into them. _No. I don't want to see anyone. Not while I don't even know what's happening to me. Please. _The very strange thought _I only need you_ crossed his mind, but Sherlock blamed it on fear.

"What _are_ you?"

Sherlock grunted and fell back to the floor as his left leg gave way under his body. John seemed to seize the opportunity and applied pressure around the wound, then on the different pressure points, probably those that were more likely to help stop the bleeding. Sherlock ground his teeth but couldn't hold back a whimper.

"I'm sorry I shot you, but what were you doing on my bed, really?"

Sherlock turned back his gaze on him and scowled. _What could I have possibly been doing John, huh? And what is wrong with you firing so soon? Oh, don't tell me you shoot anyone who goes on your bed. _He ignored the fact that not many of John's girlfriends had paws and roared when they climbed into bed.

"You remind me someone – damn him, by the way, leaving me with a bloody _tiger_ in the flat..."

Sherlock growled frighteningly, furious. _I'm right here, you imbecile! _John jumped and picked his gun nimbly.

"Don't. Move. I have no qualms shooting a man, don't think for one second I'll balk at shooting a big cat."

Another twinge, which Sherlock skilfully ignored as well. _I know_, he thought bitterly, _usually I'm the one you shoot for, not the target_. He felt very tired all of a sudden and the pain was taking its toll on him, so he just rested his head on the floor. He'd just play dead, since John was so intent on offing him tonight. He did not acknowledge the acerbity pervading his own thoughts.

John sure wasn't being gentle. He was used to dealing with soldiers on the front though, Sherlock thought, so it was only natural. As a GP, he wouldn't have to treat such wounds, and certainly not without anaesthesia. He noticed he'd brought morphine, but understood that John would have used it to tame him, not to relieve him from the pain. Oh well. At least he hadn't come up with the intention of putting a bullet into his head.

The doctor's ministrations kept eliciting growls from him and he hated the fact that he couldn't complain – expostulating was fine as long as he could formulate _words_ and manage to show John how superior he truly was, but being a tiger, all he could utter were those pitiful grunts. He didn't even want to think about the moans. Inadvertently, he caught John's self-satisfied little smile and sent him a sidelong glance. How dare the man be all _smug _about this? Stupid John with his stupid soldier's dominance complex and his stupid handgun. Stupid stupid _stupid._..

"Here we go. Now, just let me make a call..."

Sherlock roared and John jumped again. _Didn't you hear me the first time? _

"What is _wrong _with you? I don't care if you're not happy, I need to make a call so someone comes and brings you home!"

That was it. Sherlock couldn't take any more of John's obliviousness. Gingerly, he got up, and teetered to the door.

"Where are you going? Wait!"

Sherlock managed his way down the stairs but his leg wobbled with pain and on the last step, he crashed.

"You're injured, for God's sake! What's wrong with my room?"

_I don't care about your stupid room_, Sherlock sulked. He limped to the kitchen and was relieved to see his clothes were still lying on the floor.

"Wait, he'll rant for hours if you ruin these..."

_Oh, you have no idea..._

Sherlock rolled into a ball and pressed the clothes close to him. _See? They're mine. MINE. What does that tell you? _

John had stopped dead in his tracks and stared.

"You're... don't tell me you're Sherlock's _pet_?" he staggered.

Sherlock groaned in dismay. _Don't be daft. I wouldn't want a pet! And a tiger? Please. I already have you anyway. _

He left the clothes there and hobbled towards his room. He jumped onto his bed and rolled on his back, sending John a look. _See? I'm not a cat. I'm human. Hu-man. _He didn't realize cats did in fact lie on their backs too, when they wanted to play. John just goggled.

"Right. I have no idea what you're saying. Please do take the bed, it's not like _he_ uses it. If you're Sherlock's pet, I'm going to kill him..."

Sherlock snapped and snarled at his infuriating flatmate – how could he be so _slow_? John backed off.

"Okay, okay, let me just call him, all right?"

_Oh yeah, call me. That's gonna help. _John picked his phone and dialled a number. It rang in the kitchen. John cursed.

"How could he leave his phone when he didn't even tell me where he was going?" he asked in a desperate tone, looking at the one he was trying to call.

Sherlock shrugged and ignored him. _I give up._ _You're too stupid to be worth my time. _

"God I swear you're just like him, so bloody arrogant and capricious and... No... Don't tell me..."

A glimmer of hope flickered in Sherlock's eyes and he regained interest. John's legs wavered and he sat down on the bed.

"Sherlock... are you Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed in relief. _Finally. _

"Oh God I've gone bonkers..."

_Oh God, not _again _! _Sherlock roared in exasperation and John jumped – again.

"Would you please stop doing that?" he yelled back.

Sherlock sent him a dark look and scoffed. John had never seen a scoffing tiger, and his bewilderment was increasing by the second.

"What have you done?"

Sherlock glanced at him. _Are you an idiot? Wait, I don't even know why I'm asking. _

"You can't be Sherlock. Is there a hidden camera or something? Someone must have trained you to react like this..."

John's stupidity was just boundless. Sherlock just shook his head and grew more desperate: he had no idea what was happening to him, and he couldn't count on John to be of any help. All he'd managed to do was shoot a bullet at him.

"How am I supposed to bloody believe you've turned into a tiger?" he shouted.

Sherlock winced at the outburst. _Yes, why would you_? But beyond the bitterness he had to admit that John usually _did_ believe him. Always.

Except... Remembering one time John hadn't actually believed him (even though he'd been _right, _of course), he jumped off from the bed, stumbling as he landed on his injured leg, and left the room. John didn't follow, and that was just fine. After roaming the living-room for a minute or so, he finally found what he was looking for: _the Cluedo_. He tried to grab it and remembered he _couldn't_, with those stupid paws. _Dull_. Picking it in his mouth, holding it tight between his jaws, he went back to the room and stared at John. The idiot _shivered_, and Sherlock realized he could indeed look quite intimidating. In fact, he was more likely to beat John in a fight in this form than in his human body – well, maybe not, because John was stupid after all. But still. He held a smirk back at the thought. Actually, John had been _scared_. That's why he'd fired. Sherlock wondered why he hadn't thought of this before: it was true he could rather easily jump on his friend and rip his throat off before he injured him further. Then he remembered why he hadn't thought of this. He didn't exactly want to rip John's throat, thank you very much.

"Jesus. You really are Sherlock."

But Sherlock was no longer listening. He dropped the box at the realization hit him. Wait. Didn't that mean...? He tried to put an end to his deductive chain of thoughts but it was too late. _He_ wasn't stupid enough not to realize it. _I wouldn't have ripped his throat. I wouldn't have let him shot me between the eyes. _

"I'm sorry I shot you. What were you thinking jumping on my bed like that?"

Sherlock averted his gaze and jumped back onto the bed, sitting next to his friend. He was still nonplussed and trying to make sense of his discovery.

John sighed.

"So... what do we do now? Should I call Mycroft?"

The comment roused him from his nebulous reflection and he snarled violently. _Maybe I should go for the throat after all. _

"All right, calm down, I won't call him. But Sherlock, you need someone to..."

_You talk too much_, Sherlock thought and he put his paw on John's right thigh. _I have you. And you make for enough stupidity in the room already. _He refused to process the fact that Mycroft certainly wouldn't be on the _stupid_ side of the balance.

"Okay. Okay, Sherlock."

John smiled and petted his head, right between the ears. Sherlock relaxed slightly, blocking any visualization of the scene. John's petting felt nice, period. He didn't want to think any further.

"You know, maybe I like you better in Tigger form."

Sherlock stared. _In what? _

"Oh come on, don't tell me you've never heard of Winnie the Pooh?"

_Oh __**please, **_he thought, rolling his eyes and letting his head fall onto the pillow dramatically.

"I should have gotten a camera. Really. You have no idea how well this would sell."

Sherlock sent him a death glare and a threatening growl. This seemed to have the desired effect, as the sight of his exposed canines made John swallow. Satisfied with the impression he'd made, Sherlock bared his teeth even more. So much for the soldier's dominance complex.

"Right. No camera. I don't have one anyway."

As John stroke his back down his spine, he seemed to think of something funny, and bit his lips to stop himself from laughing. Sherlock arched his brow – and such a sight did nothing to calm John's impending laughter.

Since John wasn't giving him the explanation he was obviously demanding, Sherlock thought it good to hiss and swing his tail to show his displeasure. _Are you laughing at me? _John ignored him and played with an ear instead, relishing in the smoothness. _Don't you dare try to bribe me with petting! _he thought, completely oblivious to the ambiguity of the phrasing. John didn't even seem to notice his sulking. Moving to the cheeks, he ran his fingers through the fluffy white hair on each side of his indignant face.

"I was just thinking that it'd be funny if Mycroft had left any of his surveillance camera in the flat."

Sherlock's ears flattened and his pupils dilated. He growled with ire. John frowned and pressed a finger to his muzzle, startling him efficiently. Sherlock gawked, bewildered, and John seemed to find this very funny.

"Look, you're the one who somehow managed to turn into a tiger, so don't take it out on me, all right? I'm sorry I shot you, but you had it coming."

This time Sherlock acknowledged the twinge. Right. John would think that, wouldn't he? Maybe he did have it coming after all.

"Sorry, Sherlock, didn't mean it that way. But hell, I'm talking to a tiger as if it were my flatmate, what do you expect me to do? This is insane, you know. Bloody insane. Like everything related to you, really," John said, resuming his petting and sending him an apologetic look.

Sherlock just turned his head the other way.

"Oh, stop flying off the handle to every word I say! You're such a complete tosser sometimes. Most of the time."

_Right. That's why you keep flying to me like a moth to a flame, _he brooded. John started playing with the paw closest to him like the dotty idiot he was. Sherlock had never noticed he liked cats so much. Maybe he should buy him one some day, if he was being very nice. Very, _very_ nice.

As John shifted a bit on the bed, he accidentally brushed against the injured leg, eliciting a pitiful grown from his feline flatmate.

"Oops, sorry. Guess it'd be better if you lied on the other side of the bed."

Sherlock complied and saw John marvel at his meekness. Scoffing, he rolled onto the side and glared. John chuckled and moved to rest on his elbow, Roman-style.

"On second thought, you really have weird eyes. For a tiger, I mean," he added precipitately.

Sherlock pouted with all the disdain he could gather. _Oh thank you, I am very flattered. _He caught a glimpse of stupefaction and... _denial?_ in John's eyes and scrutinized his face suspiciously.

Seeing his stare, John grinned.

"Can't read those thoughts, can you? No wonder, they're so stupid... Oh, don't give me that "as-if-you-weren't-always-stupid" look or I'll stop petting you."

Sherlock's eyes turned into slits. _And you think __**that's**__ a threat? __**You're**__ the one going all gaga because you're petting a damn tiger and it makes you feel almighty._

But John wasn't impressed at all and dared stroke his throat as if he were merely a giant fluffy cat. Sherlock looked daggers at his friend's irksome smirk.

"Don't lie, Sherlock. I know you like it. You are _purring_."

Sherlock froze and was mortified to see that John was right. He _was_ indeed purring. _Chuffing_, corrected his brain, trying to come to the rescue – but it was too late, and the humiliation was complete. He turned away abruptly, breaking contact with John, and rolled on his other side, turning his back to him. _Please let this be a nightmare. _

"Oh, come on, nothing's wrong with that. It's not as if you were purring in human form..."

When Sherlock heard John chuckle, he knew he'd just pictured him actually purring _as a man_, he wished he could literally bury himself in the pillow and disappear from the face of the earth. He tensed as John nuzzled in the fur at the back of his head and laughed. It felt weird, this buzzing, and the vibration of his chuckles coursed through his whole body. He was surprised to find it not entirely unpleasant – but it was humiliating nonetheless. If he ever turned back into human form again, he'd have to find a way to erase John's memory of the event. He absolutely wouldn't live with his flatmate holding the memory of him _purring_ against his hand. For now, he decided to play along, and let his long-suffering flatmate use him as a pillow. Maybe he did deserve this to some extent. Sherlock could almost hear the cogs in the machinery of John's little brain as he wondered if he could maybe just sleep for now and deal with this whole farce.

"I mean, it can't get any worse, right?" he mumbled against Sherlock's back. "So it can wait..."

_Remarkable logic, John, quite remarkable... _

He could almost feel John's silly grin against his fur and the idiot was really thinking too loud for his own good. _Make the most of it while you can_, Sherlock thought sullenly. But even John's smugness couldn't bring him to push him back as he was slowly falling asleep, becoming heavier against his back. Sherlock concentrated very hard to _not_ form the thought that John was in fact _spooning _ him. Instead, he focused on the warmth spreading from the body against his, and the strangeness of an alien breath against the fur of his neck – the feel of the fur being just as alien. This was okay. A little more than okay, perhaps.

John was half-asleep already, but before he fell into a deep slumber, he whispered drowsily:

"I lied... Fluffy tiger's fun, but I still like you in human form too..."

"_Still"... "too"... _ emphasized Sherlock grimly. But he failed to ignore the warmth fluttering in the pit of his stomach.

When John woke up in the morning, Sherlock was already waiting in the kitchen, pretending to examine something with his microscope. He himself had only managed to fall asleep a little before dawn, and still had woken up hours ago... in human form. With John still hugging him as if he were a giant pillow. Sherlock couldn't remember having ever felt so awkward – nor having ever blushed so hard.

He heard his flatmate jump out of _his_ bed (the thought was quite disturbing) and soon John burst into the room in a frenzy.

"Sherlock! Sherlock!"

"Um?"

"What... how..."

"What were you doing in my bed? I have no idea. How did I sleep? Very well, thank you, though not much."

"But... the tiger..."

Sherlock looked up and arched an eyebrow through his goggles. He had to remain perfectly composed, or John wouldn't buy this. But it was the only way. Sherlock hadn't found any means to erase one's memory yet.

"Are you still sleeping?"

Speechless, John fell back on a chair. Sherlock turned back to his microscope, as if uninterested.

"Where did you go last night?"

"Went out for the Russian roulette case. I've solved it, by the way."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"You were sleeping so peacefully, and you didn't hear me when I called the first time, so.."

John eyed him suspiciously, but Sherlock ignored him to signify the discussion over.

"Right. Well, I think I need an aspirine."

Once he'd left the room, Sherlock let relief wash over him.

He couldn't possibly have lived with this. But for some unfathomable reason, he couldn't bring himself to delete this night's memories from his hard drive either... He scoffed, and turned back to the microscope.

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_«(o.o)»_

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**...**


	3. Game over or continue?

**A/N: **Here is the bonus chapter! It takes place after the events of _Sherlock Holmes's 7 Paw Stories: John_. Hope you enjoy reading! Reviewers are loved :)

Edit: this chapter was kindly betaed by Anbessette!

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«_(o.o)»_

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**Sherlock Holmes' 7 Paw Stories: Game over or continue?  
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Sherlock had very slowly recovered from John's bullet. He'd had to pretend he was needed for a case in Denmark for a week, which turned out to be a month and of course since he was supposed to travel incognito he couldn't contact John and tell him where he was. Of course.

In fact, he had spent a month bored to death in St Andrew's Hospital, Northampton, until he was told he could walk around safely. He hadn't specified he intended to chase criminals through London, but considered he'd wasted enough time already. He was lucky the bullet hadn't hit any bones or major nerves, or he'd still be stuck in hospital.

He was still limping though, and had told John he'd been stabbed in the leg in Copenhagen – which, on second thought, wasn't very clever a lie, since John was a _doctor_. Sherlock still couldn't walk around the flat half-naked or dressed in only his horrid blue robe, for fear John would find out his injury hadn't been caused by a blade.

Naturally Mycroft had known and, as usual, meddled. Sherlock had been forced to tell him the truth - omitting the whole tiger part, though. He had to explain that yes, the bullet had been from John's gun, but John hadn't actually known he was aiming at his flatmate, and Sherlock certainly did not want him to know. Ever.

Now that he was back in 221B, everything was back to normal. Almost. John glanced at Sherlock suspiciously whenever a cat was mentioned in conversation, and was even trying to _trick _him now and then into admitting he _had_ indeed transformed into a bloody tiger. Sometimes he seemed to forget about it altogether, and Sherlock had no doubt the poor doctor was doubting his sanity and berating himself mentally for ever thinking the experience had been something other than a dream. But then there were those times when he suddenly seemed to wonder. "Won't you tell me all about your case in Denmark? I'd like to put it on the blog." "Sherlock? Where did the Cluedo box go?" "I've been thinking... do you like to be petted?" To which Sherlock had very kindly retorted: "I'd advise you stop thinking, John, if it's to utter such nonsense."

Tonight though, Sherlock was missing John's nonsense, even if he would never admit it. The doctor had come back very tired after a hard day at the clinic, and Sherlock had been very bored all day – in other words, he'd been so insufferable over dinner (which he didn't actually eat) that John had gone up to his room, slamming the door and saying he was going to bed early.

Sighing dramatically, Sherlock stretched on the couch. He was finding the night so uninteresting he actually considered going to bed. He was pushing the door to his room when he heard a scratch coming from the living-room. He froze and frowned. John wouldn't _scratch_ at the door, would he? He turned back and opened the door to the staircase. Something big and fluffy rushed in, almost knocking Sherlock down on the way.

"What the..."

In the middle of the living-room, completely panicked and bamboozled, stood a stout and plushy feline with long, dense fur, ochre with dark vertical bars on the torso and forelegs. His chin and throat were white, merging into the greyish silky fur of the underparts. Concentric white and black rims around the eyes accentuated their rounded shape. With its long tail, short legs, very low ears set wide apart and unusually short claws, it looked positively ridiculous.

Sherlock blinked.

"You're an otocolobus manul. What's an otocolobus manul doing in Baker Street?" he asked dumbly, as if the cat would answer him.

The manul mewled loudly, and Sherlock's brow furrowed.

"Don't be so noisy. It's three in the morning, and I've been told people sleep at this time of the night."

Since the cat didn't seem to be leaving, he closed the door and went to sit on the sofa, studying the animal closely.

"Pallas' cat, they say. But you're a weird cat. You're so fluffy you look fat, and I've never seen such a flat face – as if you'd just run into a window without noticing the pane."

The manul snarled and prowled, and Sherlock thought for a second it would lash out. He sent it a haughty look, arching an eyebrow.

"I have a riding crop. My flatmate upstairs has a gun. I'd suggest you keep your attitude in check."

The cat stared, and the look it sent him didn't please Sherlock at all. It was almost insulting.

"Playing smart, are we? Well. Fine. Have it your way."

Standing up, he went back to the kitchen and pretended to resume his ongoing experiment. In fact, he was _very_ interested in the manul, and in finding out how it got there in the first place. Finally, something to distract him when his selfish flatmate was leaving him to his boredom! He grinned like a child.

The manul wasn't quite as happy. It was walking in circles in the living-room, apparently very lost and out of place. Finally, it couldn't take it anymore, and joined Sherlock in the kitchen. It jumped on a chair which teetered under its weight. Sitting down, it looked even rounder, and ever sillier.

Sherlock smirked.

"Hello, there."

He extended a hand and waited. The manul tilted its head to the side and sent him a questioning look. Sherlock grew impatient.

"Your paw. Give me your paw."

It complied grumpily, growling. Sherlock was beaming.

"You're obedient! Wonderful. I wonder if you'll do. For John, I mean. Would he want you as a pet?"

He poked his nose. The manul snarled and bit him.

"You...! Maybe I should just use you for an experiment after all. I had in mind testing the effects of citric acid on different types of skins. Yours must be more resistant than human skin – shall we find out?"

The poor cat jumped back in horror, as if he actually understood what Sherlock was saying. Or maybe it was just the Cheshire cat's grin on his face that scared it. As it tried to get away, Sherlock pulled it closer by the paw, and it fell from the chair with a loud yelp. This surprised the detective, who hadn't truly meant to hurt it.

"Calm down! I was joking, _joking_! What am I saying? I'm talking to a cat. This is absurd."

It suddenly dawned on him that this was not the first strange feline adventure he'd had this year. He eyed the manul suspiciously, scrutinising.

"Do you already have a master? Is the joke actually being pulled on me?"

The cat rolled its eyes, and successfully escaped Sherlock's grasp, retreating to a far corner of the living-room moodily.

"Are you _sulking_? Come here. I'm not going to experiment on you. You look like a smart cat – no, scratch that, you definitely don't _look_ smart."

The manul hissed and glared daggers at him.

"... but you seem to understand what I'm saying. To a certain extent."

Since the cat wasn't coming to him, Sherlock fell back on the couch broodingly.

"Fine. You're dull too, in the end. I shouldn't have had too much hope."

It didn't seem to bother him a manul arrived from God knows where was still in his living-room as he was about to try and take a nap. To be fair, said manul had a powerful death glare, but other than that didn't look very frightening. Sherlock curled on the couch, his back to the cat. It was so much like John, he thought. It snapped, but would eventually come back, of that he was absolutely certain. He wasn't sure how long it would take, though, and that was bad news for for his unoccupied mind that craved _something_ to think about. Apart from the obvious 'Why is there a manul in my flat in the middle of the night?'

About thirty minutes later, Sherlock heard the cat move about and finally settle in front of the couch, looking right at him – or, more precisely, his back. Still, he did not turn. Forty-five minutes later, it had moved closer and was almost touching the couch. Finally, after a whole hour, Sherlock felt a paw on his left shoulder and smirked. He turned abruptly and picked it up under the front legs, holding it high above him. The manul howled and growled, baring its teeth. Sherlock snorted. The jaw was short and had fewer teeth than other felids.

"I'm sorry to tell you the lack of the first pair of premolars doesn't make for a very terrifying growl."

The manul's eyes turned to slits and it shut its mouth instantly. Sherlock gaped.

"You have a sense of... pride? I'm afraid that's rather misplaced on your part... You should aim for fluffiness. You're rather fluffy, after all."

This didn't seem to please the manul in the least, and it wriggled its legs, trying to scratch Sherlock's arms and face. Sherlock pouted.

"On edge, are we? Maybe I should just put you back outside and you can get it all out on the street."

The manul stopped jiggling and sent him a pleading look. Sherlock's eyes grew wide and a flicker of juvenile wonder flashed through his pupils. Still lying down, he put the cat back on top of his abdomen. Its heaviness was balanced by the smoothness of its fur. Sherlock had never had a plushy toy – boring – but at this moment he understood for the first time in his life why children could enjoy having one.

To his surprise, the downy cat didn't bite him nor scratch him: it just sat there, squat and sturdy. Its big round eyes were too dark for a manul, though – a warm chestnut brown Sherlock found especially to his liking. He muttered as if to himself:

"I had no idea he liked cats so much – he rather struck me as the dog-type. Loving, faithful, so damn self-sacrificing..."

The cat didn't let him continue his rant. It suddenly jumped off and Sherlock gasped – had it gained momentum by pushing against his stomach or was it done on purpose for the sake of it?

"You stupid..."

Said stupid cat was now scratching the door like crazy, obviously wanting to open it but not quite managing to do so. He emitted a chirruping noise, calling for help with annoyance. Sherlock stood up lazily and walked up to it. He smirked and cast him a smug look.

"Are you stuck, by any chance?"

The manul hissed ragingly and was making such a racket that Sherlock thought it wiser to open the door – but not before testing his authority on the frenzied cat.

"Shall I open it for you, perhaps?"

It stopped scratching, seething, and sent him a truly intimidating and very dark glare. Unfortunately for the poor cat, it lost a most of its effect when considering the flat face as a whole, with its funny ears and hairy whiskers. Oh, Sherlock was having fun.

"Now, is that your way to say 'please'? I'm afraid you'll have to be a little more convincing than that."

They had a staring contest and Sherlock won. Distressed, the manul fidgeted. Sherlock arched an eyebrow and waited. He wasn't a very patient man, but he could wait when he knew he'd get what he wanted in the end. Reluctantly, the fluffy cat emitted an imperceptible meow.

"What was that?" Sherlock pressed on with mock innocence.

The manul mewled back angrily. Sherlock frowned, and it winced. It mewled again in a more pleading manner, but still disgruntled. Sherlock was actually very curious to know where the cat wanted to go, so decided to leave it at that.

"Fine", he said magnanimously as he opened the door.

Instantly the manul was running as fast as he could – which wasn't very fast – up the stairs to John's room.

"Wait, don't go there!" Sherlock admonished in a low voice, trying to keep it down. But in truth he found the idea of waking John up with yet another feline on his bed quite tempting and so followed the cat, grinning somewhat mischievously.

He was rather disappointed to see John's room was empty. The manul, on the other hand, was beaming, and jumped eagerly onto the unmade bed. Sherlock shook his head.

"That's no use. He's not here, in case you haven't noticed."

The cat sent him a puzzled look and he shrugged.

"You can stay here if you want. I think he'll like you. If he thought a _tiger_ was soft and fluffy, he should be very happy with..."

He was interrupted by an exasperated yowl and was dumbstruck as the manul started hopping about – or tried to, anyway. It wasn't exactly light enough to hop and the mattress was squeaking ominously under his weight.

Sherlock walked into the room and came to sit on the bed, bemused. Maybe the cat was mad – could felines get rabies? His brain was so fogged up at the moment he wasn't quite sure. Looking at the bouncing manul on John's bed, he was even wondering if he weren't the mad one here. Contrary to his own assessment, he must have been tired after all, because it didn't even occur to him this whole situation was very similar to the one that got him shot in the leg.

Eventually the manul got weary and fell onto the mattress with a thud, exhausted and puffing. Sherlock observed as its chest rose up and down, up and down, looking like a giant and plushy fugu fish, and he couldn't help but giggle. The cat glared, but it looked so desperate Sherlock felt a twinge of pity for it.

"I can see you like John's bed. Is he hiding catnip somewhere?"

The manul closed its eyes in defeat. Sherlock picked a leg, held it up, and let go. It fell back onto the mattress limply. The cat was still breathing – quite loudly in fact – but it seemed to have gotten tired of it all and just given up.

Sherlock pouted.

"You want to sleep already? Dull..."

The cat reopened its eyes sleepily and blinked. With a lot of effort, it brought itself back to its feet, and scurried over to Sherlock groggily. It looked him in the eye, then let its head fall with a soft thud on Sherlock's injured leg. Sherlock jumped and bit his lips. Straight away the cat was looking up and eyeing him suspiciously. The detective stared in bewilderment. Had the manul _known_ he was injured?

"You..."

He was cut off as the chunky cat started rubbing its forehead gingerly on Sherlock's leg, so softly he only sensed the fur stroking him through the fabric.

"You're a weird cat," he said, frowning, but there was fondness in his tone.

Tentatively, he raised a hand and put it on the manul's neck – or back, it was rather difficult to tell them apart with all this fur. Still hesitant, he caressed it once, then again, until he was petting the big cat with wonder in his eyes. He caught himself smiling and stopped right away. He stood up abruptly.

"Right. Well, I should be going to bed. We don't want John coming back and finding me in his, now do we? You can stay here though. I'll tell him I've found him a pet in the morning."

The manul emitted a mewling sound of protest and tried to reach him with his paws again – but Sherlock was moving already and it lost its balance, toppling over the edge of the bed and crashing on the floor with a pitiful wail. In a second Sherlock was picking it up and putting it back onto the bed, pulling the blanket up so it would be more comfortable. He refused to think too much about what he was doing – or about John's reaction in the morning.

"You're completely useless, aren't you?"

A flash of sheer pain traversed the face of the manul and Sherlock was flabbergasted. It had seemed so... human.

"Are you... are you a man?"

He felt stupid the very moment he uttered it. Sighing, he stood back up to go, but this time the cat had successfully planted its claws into his sleeve and wouldn't let go. Sherlock gave up and sat back, but the cat still wasn't satisfied until he'd lay down on the mattress by its side.

In the darkness of the room, and sleep playing its part, he was soon petting the weird cat again, his mind buzzing with data and questions, trying to figure out this unlikely situation. It all stopped when through the fur he felt a heart beat, and a vibrating purr. It was incredibly silly and he knew it, but he was still hit by a wave of _sentiment_ and couldn't help it.

"You're not a plushy toy", he murmured dumbly. "You're alive."

At this the manul, which was already falling asleep, opened its hazel eyes and peered at him through the shadows. Those ridiculously round eyes seemed to be calling him, and before he knew it, Sherlock was resting his brow against the cat's, closing his eyes. His hand running in the softer fur of the belly and chest stopped and revelled in the regular thumping and purring. It was radiating warmth and a sense of _home_, lulling Sherlock to sleep. His brain was still very active but quite chaotic, and was merely flashing words and concepts such as _safety_, _pricelessness, marvel_, _John_...

The latter seemed to remind Sherlock of something, and he frowned. Before his hard drive was effectively put on standby, he mumbled childishly:

"Maybe I won't give you to John after all..."

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_«(-.-)»_

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In the morning, Sherlock was very surprised upon waking up – precisely because it was morning, and he was waking up. He rarely slept an entire night. It got worse when he realized he was in John's room. With no trace of a manul whatsoever. He groaned and went down to the kitchen, where he found John running around precipitately, half a piece of toast in his mouth.

"I'm really late for the clinic, tried not to wake you up when I got my clothes – you should have told me you'd only sleep soundly in my bed. Is it the mattress? Or the upstairs bedroom? We can switch, you know."

Before Sherlock could say anything he was already running right past him to his jacket and briefcase.

"There's still some toast left, if you'd like any – who knows, you've slept, maybe you'll actually eat something willingly today! I'm off."

Speechless, Sherlock didn't quite know whether he should chase and grill him. When John suddenly popped his head around the door, he started.

"Oh, by the way, Sherlock. Please never buy me a pet : you're completely clueless as to what I would like. Later!"

And he was gone. Sherlock stared dumbly at the door, then grumbling, letting his head fall against the wall with a bang. _I prefer resting my brow against a manul's to banging my head on the wall_, was the very useful note his brain made.

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«(o.o)»

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«(o.o)»

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